


Yours, Truly

by justfortune



Category: The Arcana (Visual Novel)
Genre: AFAB Asra (The Arcana), Cunnilingus, Fingering, Gender-Neutral Apprentice (The Arcana), M/M, Oral Sex, Yikes they're both tops
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-12
Updated: 2020-03-12
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:08:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23111488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justfortune/pseuds/justfortune
Summary: Pascal’s breaths had become shallow in his chest. Color blossomed under his cheeks despite the crisp, still air in the room. And somewhere deep in his gut, something gnawed at his insides. Anger? Spite? No, greener.He grew envious of his sweetheart’s mysterious former partner. Why, after months of being his alone, had he kept a relic of lovers’ past? Who was this person to Asra, that he’d held onto their intimate correspondence?--This fic was an excuse to write someone going down on Asra. You're all very welcome.
Relationships: Apprentice/Asra (The Arcana), Asra (The Arcana)/Original Male Character(s)
Comments: 12
Kudos: 79





	Yours, Truly

**Author's Note:**

> Hey team! Asra here is AFAB, although I don't use any gendered terminology to refer to his privates. Hole, folds, etc. are fair game here.   
> Pascal uses he/him pronouns but no genitals are discussed for him, and it'd honestly be pretty easy to imagine whatever apprentice you want in his place.

The sound of hooves awkwardly clunking down wooden spiral stairs greeted Pascal as he opened the door to his shop. 

_Hungry!_

His laugh was dry. "Of course you are, Berlioz," he responded with a roll of his eyes. A nudge of his boot sent the door creaking shut behind him. "Of course your own breakfast wasn't enough, and neither was half of the larder. Here." Two gloved hands rustled around in his satchel until they found their target - a cloth bag full of oats. He pulled back the drawstrings and emptied the contents into a small pile on the floor. "You'd best make these last. I'm not heading out again until the snow melts." 

Coming downstairs to find his familiar rummaging through the pantry was not a pleasant way to begin his morning, not when it meant bundling up and heading out to market in the unseasonably cold spring to come up with breakfast. Although he couldn't be too angry -- an early morning out meant that he arrived just as fresh pumpkin bread was coming out of the oven, and he got the first pick of the lot. He fished a wrapped loaf out of his pocket, still steaming, and set it far back on the counter. Asra would be home today, and Pascal knew that his comrade would delight in a taste of home after a week away. 

The gloves only came off when it became apparent that a fire was needed sooner rather than later to heat the place. He stacked a few logs over yesterday’s ashes, then took a handful of the black powder from underneath. Pascal imagined light radiating from the ashes in his hands. A puff of air breathing the dust onto the dry logs was all it took to get them to catch, roaring to life with flame. 

_Fruit_ , insists a voice in his head. 

Pascal looks from the fire over to the pile of oats -- or where he’d left it, rather. A pair of horizontal pupils belonging to a particularly needy goat stared back at him. 

“You think I wouldn’t bring you some if I could? There’s none to be had, not in this weather.” 

Berlioz gave her master an agitated look before lumbering back up the spiral stairs. 

Perhaps she had the right idea. It’d be warmer up there; maybe Pascal could get a bit of reading done curled up in his quilts. He clapped the soot from his hands and followed behind his friend. 

His disappointed sigh made a cloud in the cold air as he looked on the barren bed. Figuring he’d kill two birds with one stone, he’d taken the blankets to the launderer to pick up fresh and clean for Asra that afternoon. Pascal cursed his lack of foresight. There’s no way his thin coat would keep the chill from his bones until the fire’s warmth reached the upstairs. He rubbed his hands together, thoughtful. 

_Asra’s cloak,_ Berlioz pointed out. 

That’s right -- Asra wouldn’t have needed it in Nopal’s desert climate. Pascal’s hopes were rewarded when he opened the closet to find thick wool hanging there. He draped it over his coat and almost immediately felt his own body start to heat up inside. 

Berlioz had well earned a scratch between the horns, which she arched up into. 

_Handsome!_

Pascal grinned. “Thanks, it has pockets.” 

Naturally, his familiar felt the need to inspect the pockets for any treats potentially left behind. Pascal was a bit distracted admiring himself in the mirror. The deep navy blue complimented his skin tone and dark hair perfectly, and the golden embroidery gave him a secretive-yet-refined aura. He held his chin high, giving the mirror his most mysterious smirk. Perhaps he might wear this cloak out sometime, drawing the hood and letting others think he was Vesuvia’s renowned magician, Asra the Incredible, vanquisher of demons, protector of-- 

A horrifying sound brought him out of his daydream. 

“BERLIOZ WHAT ARE YOU EATING?” 

The sound of chewing stopped for a moment, then was replaced with the sound of hooves skittering across the floor and down the stairs. 

“GET BACK HERE!” 

Pascal bolted down the stairs after her. The guilty goat wound up cornered in the tarot-reading room, feverishly munching whatever was in her mouth. 

“Do not swallow. Let me see what’s in your mouth.” 

She shied away, but Pascal had the advantage of size and opposable thumbs to pry her jaws open and find… nothing. 

The sound of something light hitting the floor. 

Perplexed, Pascal reached down to find a crumpled, moist bit of paper -- at least, that’s what it felt like. He couldn’t see anything but the bare stone floor. Fingers closed around it, and he lifted it to get a closer inspection. He squeezed his hand just a bit, hearing a crinkling sound and feeling the telltale jabs of paper folds poking into his hand. His brow furrowed. This had to be some sort of magic, which meant it had to be Asra’s doing. Not only did he keep this item in his own coat pocket, but he’d enchanted it with some sort of invisibility spell. He’d wanted to keep it secret from Pascal. 

He had to know what it was. 

With the paper in hand, he made his way over to the fireplace. “Please,” he whispered to the flame, “be gentle. I want to reveal this, not destroy it.” 

The heat died down a few degrees in response to his words. With the image of a few papers pictured in his mind, he gingerly placed the object onto the logs. 

The fire slowly died around the area where it had been set, and Pascal began to see the vague form of a piece of parchment. After a few breaths, all that remained of the blaze were a few burning embers -- and a yellowed envelope with thick black writing. 

It was warm to the touch when he brought it out. 

_To Asra the Magician_   
_in Pascal’s Magic Shop_   
_Vesuvia_

Oh, this is exciting. The room’s chill was all but forgotten as greedy fingers dove into the envelope and pulled out the letter within. It was several pages long, and the calligraphy was small -- someone certainly had a lot to say to him. 

_To my Asra,_

\-- Pardon, whose Asra? 

_The Sea of Persephia is beautiful beyond words. Each morning I awake to the sound of gulls, and each night I’m lulled asleep by waves crashing against the shore. The sun’s rays aren’t as harsh here; I work and walk all day without breaking into a sweat. It’s certainly a welcome respite from Vesuvia’s intense heat this time of year._

He smiled softly. Asra had long said that he’d love to explore the beaches of Persephia together, insisting that Pascal would love everything about it. 

_I love it here. The sand is clean, the wine is sweet, and the locals are sweeter._

It sounded like paradise. 

_The thing is, Asra, it’s missing the sweetest thing of all -- my lover’s lips._

...Oh. 

_The summer fruit is ripe as it is plentiful. The tragedy is that I can’t indulge in a bite without thinking of you. Flushed red berries remind me of your lips. I eat them by the handful, and when their sticky juice drips down my chin from overindulgence, the thought of you doing the same can’t escape me._

_Fresh citrus bursts in my mouth, offering a caricature of your flavors -- the sour, the bitterness. The faint scent of the day’s catch coming off the docks. The salt in the air. It’s all too much. The sensation of you is everywhere I turn._

Pascal’s breaths had become shallow in his chest. Color blossomed under his cheeks despite the crisp, still air in the room. And somewhere deep in his gut, something gnawed at his insides. Anger? Spite? No, greener. 

He grew envious of his sweetheart’s mysterious former partner. Why, after months of being his alone, had he kept a relic of lovers’ past? Who was this person to Asra, that he’d held onto their intimate correspondance? 

And God, was it intimate. They go on to describe flaky fish falling apart in their mouth, oil clinging to their tongue long after their meal, and it was all a bit much for the poor magician. Reading the letter made it all feel so fresh, and Pascal was brought to an image of the sea, sand between his toes, sweet wine on his breath, Asra’s wetness on his fingers. His next inhale was long, ragged. It came out of him in the form of his name -- “Asra” -- just so he could taste it. 

For the second time that day, he was unceremoniously dragged from his fantasy by a noise. A key fit into the lock and turned. The door creaked open. Lavender eyes peeked from around the door. 

“I’m back.” 

Pascal let the letter drop forgotten to the table. 

Asra closed the door. 

“I finished with my affairs yesterday afternoon. I thought I’d travel through the night to make it back in time for hot bread, but it smells like you beat me to it.” A warm smile painted his lips. “I also wanted to see you as soon as possible, and… Is that my cloak?” 

In that moment, Pascal had to know what that smile tasted like. He rose and closed the distance between them in 3 long strides. 

It was as he’d remembered it -- like summer sun, ground spices, a soft breeze. They were chapped from his adventures in the cold and grinning from excitement. 

Heavy bronze eyelids closed as their owner melted into the kiss. 

The taller of the two magicians wouldn’t let his partner savor this; no, his mission was to take him back from that letter-writing adventurer. Pascal gave that plush bottom lip a bite. 

Strong hands gripped Asra’s biceps, keeping him still and leaving soot smudges in their wake. Another bite, this time to the space right underneath his ear, left him gasping. “Is this what we’re doing now?” His hands came to rest on Pascal’s hips, unable to wander much farther in their captivity. He couldn’t keep the rouge from rising to his lips. “Not that I mind -- it’s just that I’m exhausted, and I was hoping to take a hot bath after all that travel.” 

“I want to taste you.” The statement was growled into Asra’s collarbone. 

Asra’s laugh was teasing. “You’ll have to work extra hard to keep me awake, then. Go on, help me with my bags.” 

Pascal let him go long enough to lift the satchel off of his partner’s shoulders, then start helping him with his backpack. A periwinkle serpent slithered out of the canvas bag and towards the sunbeam Berlioz was snoozing in. 

Asra took half a step back, hopping up to sit on the edge of the counter. Pascal was about to close in on him when he was met with a boot to the chest. “And my shoes?” Eyes the color of orchids fixed a steely gaze, which Pascal returned for only a moment before dropping them to the matter at hand. He fumbled with the woven hemp cords binding his boots closed as quickly as he could. Once the boots were gone, the socks were an easy next step. But as he advanced on Asra once more, he was stopped again -- this time by a hand holding him at arm’s length. 

“ _Asra,_ ” whined Pascal. 

“My feet are sore. Rub them.” 

His indignant reply -- “Say please.” 

“On your knees… please.” 

It was done. Pascal sank down and took a foot in hand, rubbing the sole with his thumbs. A content Asra sighed. He placed a soft kiss to each of his travel-worn toes as his fingers worked their way up to massage the ball of his foot. Minutes melted away as Pascal paid a certain reverence to his former master until he just couldn’t take it anymore. His attentions travelled up to Asra’s ankles -- surely they were sore, too -- and his calves deserved some kisses as well. Asra wiggled and stifled a laugh when he got to his ticklish spots behind the knees. Slowly, so as not to push his luck, Pascal rose, observing each inch of his thighs, his stomach, chest, neck, chin, and finally his mouth. This time Asra kissed him back with a fever. Newly-relaxed legs gripped Pascal’s hips; he was downright possessive in response, pulling him into a tight embrace. 

The man on the counter grew hungrier as the seconds slipped past them. He was trying to grind his pelvis onto his lover’s, but his position made it difficult. 

“Something you want?” Pascal teased. 

“You know what I want.” Asra was flushed and breathless and wrecked; the words just barely made it past his lips. 

He moved to kiss Asra’s neck once more. “Yes, but I want to hear you say it.” 

“Get inside me. Please, Pascal.” 

A tattooed hand snaked down to rub him through his trousers. “Here?” 

_“There.”_

“Thought you’d never ask.” His words were playful, as evidenced by the grin on his face. He treated Asra’s crotch to a few more firm, slow circles before moving to divest him of his pants. 

Asra leaned back on his hands. “I wasn’t asking.” A wink and a smirk. His legs spread, inviting him in. Pascal traced his middle finger down from his bellybutton, past the thick white curls on his mound, gently over his most sensitive part and folds, and into his wet silk. 

Pascal didn’t need to go any deeper than his second knuckle to feel spongy flesh against his fingertip. For a moment, they were both still. Silent. He could feel Asra’s heart beat in time with his own. Then he began to rub that spot ever-so-softly. White lashes fluttered down to rest on amber cheeks while a sigh escaped his chest. His face looked almost serene when Pascal painstakingly drew his fingers out, only to press them just as slowly back inside. A few more thrusts had Asra’s head lolling back, mouth agape. He was wet and warm like late-summer rain, and Pascal wanted to drink him by the mouthful. 

“Asra?” 

“Mmh--?” 

“Can I taste you?” 

“Huh? Oh, yes -- please.” 

Pascal’s back to his knees in an instant, nuzzling through the hair to press his nose to his sex. He inhaled. 

The aroma brought him straight to the ocean -- salty waves, fresh citrus fruit, and the raw, masculine heat of the sun crashed over his senses, threatening to pull him underwater. The love-stricken man choked on a moan he wasn’t aware had gotten caught in his throat. His tongue came out to caress him from his hole all the way up to the tight center of nerves that made Asra suck his breath in through his teeth when he licked there. The lips between his legs were thick and ripe with arousal; Pascal indulged until that arousal dripped down his chin. Two fingers slid back inside of him and rubbed that same spot. 

Firm thighs clamped down on his ears, muffling the sound of Asra’s panting and wordless cries. He was loud, so loud that they might have been embarrassed for the thin walls were they not otherwise engrossed in each other. Nails varnished in chipped polish dug into his scalp, dragging him forward by the hair. It was heavenly. Pascal hardly had the space to move his skull anymore, so he focused on punishing his g-spot and wiggling his tongue about his folds. 

Asra picked up his head to look down. “Come up here, you. I want to cum on your fingers.” The second his face was released, Pascal was surging up to capture his lips in a feverish kiss, never once relenting the pressure inside of him. 

The magician reached down to rub himself in Pascal’s tongue’s place; and that was all it took. Pascal felt a rhythmic tightening on his fingers while Asra filled his mouth with a mess of _yes’_ s and _right there’_ s and _I love you’s._

He stilled his hand while Asra rode out the last of his orgasm. Fluffy white hair tickled Pascal’s neck as a thoroughly spent Asra slumped forward to lean on his shoulder. Pascal rubbed his back. 

“Thank you,” he mumbled into his shoulder. 

“No, thank you -- really, I was craving that.” 

“I could tell.” His laugh was dry; Asra was already drifting off. 

“Come on; let’s get you upstairs. We’ll have a nap.” 

“A nap… yeah, a nap sounds nice…” 

\-- 

Pascal awoke to the bright sun in his face and the navy-and-gold cloak wrapped around him like a blanket. His love was gone, leaving wrinkled sheets in his place. 

He pulled the cloak tighter around himself and lumbered out of bed. Looking down over the loft, he saw Asra in front of the fireplace, tea in one hand and a letter in the other. 

“Morning,” Pascal called down. 

“Afternoon, more like,” replied Asra amicably, looking up at him with a smile. “I see you found your letter.” 

“My letter?” He asked, padding sock-footed down the stairs. “It’s addressed to you.” 

Asra’s laugh was like bells chiming. “You wrote this to me back before… well, everything. You used to write me all sorts of things when you visited far-off places.” 

Pascal wrinkled his nose in distaste. “It isn’t very good.” 

“I disagree. I quite like them. Read this part -- _the sensation of you is everywhere I turn._ Isn’t that nice?” 

“ _Stop!_ ” Insisted Pascal, moving to snatch the letter from Asra’s hands -- but Asra was faster. He moved it just out of the other’s reach. 

“If you hate it so much, you could always write me another.” His eyes glimmered with mischief. 

A defeated Pascal took a seat in Asra’s lap. “I think I’ll do just that. Now, where should I adventure off to?”

**Author's Note:**

> thank u bless u for reading this. i haven't written anything for like 5 years so it's probably super awkward and problematic in parts. i also didn't reread it before posting it. we die like men.


End file.
